


The Salt of Compassion

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aithusa To The Rescue, Arthur Has Problems, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, he's working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Arthur wonders what it is of human nature that compels them to deal the worst blows against those they love, or to return to that which they know will cause them pain. Whatever it is, he is no different.
Relationships: Aithusa & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon & Uther Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Tales of a Dragon and His Prince [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737112
Comments: 15
Kudos: 555
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	The Salt of Compassion

Arthur wonders what it is of human nature that compels them to deal the worst blows against those they love, or to return to that which they know will cause them pain. Whatever it is, he is no different.

"Why did you do it, Father?"

He hunches forward, a distant, smothered memory of his etiquette teacher scolding him, and places both elbows on his knees, head bowed forward. His hair falls in his eyes, partially obscuring his view of his father, sitting in his chair as he always is, gazing out into nothing. Elle, the nurse charged with his father's care, says that the king enjoys the sun and the fresh air from the windows. Arthur doesn't see how. There is nothing in his face to show that there is anything present at all.

"I know about Mother," he murmurs against his clasped fingers, knuckles pressed to his lips. "I know…I know what happened." Arthur rakes a hand back through his hair, sweeping it back out of his face only to have it fall back into place again. He's never worn it so long, and yet, how can he be so vain as to think on his own appearance when so much is happening, when there is so much to be done? "What I don't know is, how could you do it? How could you inflict so much… _suffering_ on so many people? They did you no harm, Father. You brought it upon yourself. You had to know. How could you not?"

Merlin had explained it all to him, and Gaius had confirmed it to be true. Now that he's had some months to let the knowledge settle in him, let the wound heal over some, he can understand it, at least in part. It is the one rule of magic he can understand without difficulty, laid out clean and clear. A death must be given for a life. A life cannot be made without a death. And it will not be the life of some faceless stranger half a world away, but someone cherished, someone beloved. How could anyone appreciate the weight of such a sacrifice otherwise? It is cold and cruel and unfair. But he understands it.

Father only gazes out the window, unblinking, unshifting.

He unclasps his hands and presses them both over his face until all he can see behind his closed lids are white starbursts. After counting a span of his own heartbeats, an old trick he had learnt in training, he lowers his hands again, staring at the hollow man he had called his father. "You know…I've read that to impart suffering without compassion is an abomination, even to the gods. They deliver punishment upon us because they love us so well. Capricious they may be, they still hold love. I wonder if you do, if you remember how. Suffering without compassion. And in order to maintain the balance of the world, there are those who are made to bear such pain. To endure suffering…with infinite compassion."

He takes care never to say Merlin's name in these one-sided conversations. Partially because if there is some shadow of the man still lingering, he does not want to risk Merlin, _never_ Merlin. And partially because he does not want to speak Merlin's name in here, not like this. It feels…wrong to do so.

Rubbing his thumb over his ring, Mother's ring, he swallows hard a few times, forcing down the solid knot that has settled in his throat. "Knowing all that I know now…I thought I would hate you," he whispers. "Sometimes, I almost wish I could. It would be easier then, wouldn't it? And I can't. I don't. I wonder if I am to bear both sides of this balance. To feel compassion for those who have been so wronged, and yet, to suffer to see you as you are now, to love you still."

Arthur closes his eyes again, dragging in a ragged breath, one after another, until he no longer feels quite so much like he is drowning; his father only stares into the empty air.

Sitting forward once again, he buries both hands in his hair, clenching his fingers around the strands and pulling until it burns. He isn't certain how long he sits that way when he feels that starting-to-become-familiar tickle along the edges of his mind, like a feather dragging along the inside of his skull, and hears the soft click of claws on stone. He turns his gaze out to the seemingly empty chambers.

"Aithusa."

She hadn't gone looking for him when she left their nest-chamber, not truly. Father lets her explore the white mountain to her leisure, so long as she keeps out of sight of the other humans and is always back in their nest come sundown. It is better than sitting with the grandfather and listening to his lessons for hours and hours on end.

The white mountain is a splendid territory, and she cannot help but to preen, proud of Father's mate—she finally understands his truename, _Arthur_ —for having such a splendid home. She has wonderous fun, stalking the squeaking scurry-prey, finding new precious things to add to her hoard, making friends of the furry-soft hunting beasts Father calls _cats._ They understand some words of Drakine, know all the best places to nap, and she finds that so long as she keeps her wings furled in close and darts quickly, the humans seem to think her one, too.

Replete from a lunch of scurry-prey, she is prowling along the tunnels in search of new pretties, searching the niches and corners and underneath the wood-perches, when distress tugs at the fringes of her familial bond. Not her tether to Father—he is full of delighted ease, sharing company with sweet-voice-and-warm-iron, the human female.

Which means it is Arthur.

Abandoning her hunt, she follows the slender tether between them down the tunnel and into one of the caves, sliding her way past the wood-wall where it's left slightly open. It is a nest-chamber, the smell of human male permeating the very stone of it. Over by one of the wind-blows, Arthur is sitting with another human, the male who must live here, greying and smelling of illness and mortal frailty. She knows from Father that it is Arthur's sire; she knows from the grandfather that it is also the _Drakoszosch_ , the Dragonbane, eggbreaker, nestburner.

"Aithusa," he says in a low voice.

At the sound of her name, she slips out from her hiding place, craning her neck up to look at him. She is not supposed to be in the open with any other human, which means she is breaking Father's rule, but right now, she doesn't feel anything other than concern for Arthur. He doesn't _smell_ like he should, leather and lavender, and his mind-glow, normally deep and stone-steady and warm as a bed of fresh coals, is dim and clouded, smothered beneath a heavy veil of bitter-scented grief.

Peering past him, she stares at the _Drakoszosch,_ showing her teeth at its exposed back. Is that the source of his pain? If the _Drakoszosch_ could bring harm to eggs, to dragonets, could it also do harm to its own? Did it harm him, too? She shivers all over, claws scraping on the stone floor under her, and there's a strange, hot clenching behind her breastbone, throat tightening, and she coughs a plume of smoke.

"Shh," Arthur murmurs as he rises, big enough to be a world himself. "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

Even as he says it, he reaches down to tuck a hand under her belly, lifting her to his shoulder. He has put on his scale-skin, not so comfortable to lay on, but the cold-hard texture of it means nothing next to this awful _ache_ he bears in him, so heavy it has even changed the scent of him. Aithusa stretches up to tuck her snout into the soft fur behind his ear, trying to imitate the rolling hum Father makes to soothe her and pushing comfort and reassurance along their still-developing bond as best she can. She won't let the _Drakoszosch_ harm him, not ever again.

He steps away from the _Drakoszosch,_ carrying her into another of the little connected caves, warm-rough hands tucked around her back and under her haunches to support her. She can still smell the other human, but she cannot see him anymore, and that will suit for now.

Arthur stands still for a moment, unmoving. The muscle in his jaw flexes; he makes a strange sound in his throat, half-aborted as though it's been caught halfway up. Slowly, he sinks down until he is kneeling on the ground, curled over on himself as though in pain. That awful sound shudders out of him in little jerks and gasps, and she can feel his body trembling even though the scale-skin. Aithusa coos softly, curling herself tighter against him even as she reaches out to touch her thoughts to Father's, needing his strength for both of them.

Wetness drips onto her wing, running down the bone of her sail, and she turns her head towards it with concern, thinking it blood for the warmth it holds.

Not blood. Too thin, clear. Water? Curious, she flicks her tongue out against his roughly-furred skin.

Salt.


End file.
